


Never Have I Ever

by batgirl (vantas)



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-15
Updated: 2012-09-15
Packaged: 2017-11-14 06:40:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/512403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vantas/pseuds/batgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There may or may not be something wrong with your life when your stepbrother runs away to join the circus and comes back a college professor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Have I Ever

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ryoji](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryoji/gifts).



> Small commission! Not as flowing as I would have liked, but ah well. Commission information can be found [here](http://antibiotics.dreamwidth.org/3577.html).

Gotham City College: the token seedy educational institution of Gotham. Known to many by the simple initials of GCC, and known to even more by the more affectionate (affectionate here, of course, being a gentle replacement for a much cruder adjective) and creative names. It was poorly maintained, poorly funded, and poorly cleaned. Its external hallways were covered in often ignored graffiti and its floors stained by even more pointedly disregarded chewing gum and vomit stains.

It could barely even be called a community college.  


But that’s what its credential stated and that’s what the management would insist on. Gotham City College was a fine institution and a fantastic alternative to those students who wished to further their studies but their pockets and bank accounts were sorely lacking. _There’s no shame in going to community college_ , they’ll say, shoving registration papers in the face of any student unfortunate enough to run across their booth while walking through the halls of their high school. _You’ll have fun_ , they’ll insist, a pleasant smile on their collective faces.

Far too late, one (1) Jason Todd laments that he should have recognized those pleasant smiles as a sign that his life would (undoubtedly) go to shit from day one, but he really didn’t. 

Staring at the registration papers in his hand (happily stamped, signed and stapled) and then back at the metal plate on the door helpfully engraved with the classroom number _A-28_ , he decides that, yeah. He had the right classroom, with its door gracefully decorated with graffiti telling him to suck on his mother’s nipples ( _hah_ ) and cold air wafting through the sides and making him resent both the humid summer climate and his decision to wear a hoodie in it even more. It was just as funny as the fact that he was several minutes late (no thanks to the fact that he kept hitting snooze. He would invest in setting fire to the grave of whoever’s idea that button was) and even funnier than the fact that it took three times for the card scanner to accept his student ID and let him open the door.

He regrets it in record time.

“—so if we take a look at the second page,” Dick Grayson says, in his own Dick Grayson way, as Jason opens the door to the classroom and stares at him. Well, that was most definitely his new professor. 

Looks like his big brother (quote, unquote) came back from the circus.

* * *

He grabs him the moment the classroom has cleared out, a rather cross look on his face as he holds him still by the collar of his argyle sweater. Dick cocks an eyebrow, mildly confused, before his face lights up like a Christmas tree in December and he’s all smiles. “Jason!” Dick exclaims, excitable like a child who had just opened a present and less like a community college professor who was being manhandled by one of his students. “I thought I saw you in the lists. Do you always wear the hood up like that? It makes you look like—”

“Can it, Grayson,” he cuts him off, letting go of his collar and pulling his hood even further down, in some mock act of teenage rebellion that wasn’t even applicable to the situation. It was only with some mild sort of satisfaction, once he takes a proper look at his brother this close up, that he takes notice of the new and improved height difference. “What are you doing here? I thought you flew the coop and ran away to the circus.”

“Well,” Dick begins, shifting his weight to his left foot and grinning lopsidedly. He adjusts the collar of his argyle sweater (which was awful, but a very Dick Grayson thing to wear), and then, he simply _shrugs_. “It was fun at Haly’s, but I missed Gotham.”

“I’m—” he begins, pausing before giving him this _look_. For the life of him, he couldn’t fathom why anyone would miss Gotham. It had a certain charm, yeah, but that charm was more about the gritty and less about the possibility of _not_ getting mugged while going through the streets. “I didn’t know you were coming back.”

For some reason or another, the expression on Dick’s face turns to one of confusion. It was almost like there was some memo everyone and their mother had received and it had somehow missed Jason. All things considered (and especially in relation to the rest of the _family_ ), it wouldn’t be too surprising. 

“Didn’t Bruce tell you?”

Ah— _right_. Bingo.

At first, his immediate response is a nonchalant shrug of the shoulders. And then, after a beat: “Not really, no.”

“I see,” Dick offers, awkwardly and almost apologetically. He knows he’s said something strange. “Have you _talked_ to Bruce?”

The silence is very telling.

“ _Jason_ ,” Dick begins to say, but he’s already slinging his bag over his shoulders and turning for the door. He can feel his eyes on him, and he almost wants to _stay_ , but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to talk about this. 

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Dick!” He says, a bit too loudly as he opens the door, letting the humid heat from outside slap him in the face as he mock salutes one Richard Grayson. “But I’ve got classes to attend and things to do. Try not to miss me _too_ much.”

And when he’s gone, he tries to pretend he didn’t notice how sad his brother dearest looked. 

* * *

“So,” Dick says to him in the next couple of days, after he’s finally found the corner of the campus Jason has picked to hole himself up in during lunch hour. He has a transparent plastic container in hand and his shirt looks fairly ruffled, and Jason tries not to notice the way his collar bones are exposed as he sits down with the grace only a contortionist would have. Instead, he focuses his attention elsewhere—like the stupid container he was lugging around. Without needing too long of a glance, he could already see the vaguely animal shaped sandwiches he was carrying.

“So?” he responds without missing a beat, arching an eyebrow and looking at him over his calculus notes. Once upon a time, they were crispy white sheets. Those times quickly passed after the day that Jason may or may _not_ have dropped his binder in a mud puddle in order to beat up some scumbag outside of campus. In retrospect, a bloody nose and somewhat unreadable equations were both worth it.

“How are you?” his stepbrother asks, politely as he pries open the lid of his container and takes out, predictably, a dinosaur shaped peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Jason wouldn’t be too surprised if Dick was pretending to be a T-Rex devouring other species when he ripped off the head of one of his sandwiches and popped it into his mouth. It seemed like a Dick Grayson thing to do.

“Fine.”

Of course, being the mother hen that he is, Dick didn’t seem to be very satisfied with that answer. He rips off the tail of one of his sandwiches, shoving it into his mouth and not even noticing the spot of peanut butter that sticks itself to the corner of his mouth. There was a strong urge to wipe it off, almost, but— _no_. After a beat, once Dick has properly chewed and swallowed his attempts to continue the conversation. “I heard Damian’s been around. Are you two getting along? He’s your brother too, you know.”

And at that, Jason can’t do much but to let out a rather loud and obnoxious snort. “Yeah, sure,” he chirps, a bit of a sardonic grin on his face. “We get along _just_ fine, yep. Every other Thursday we go out to drink tea and eat cookies with Alfred, and when we’re done, we hug each other and make peace.”

“ _Jason_.”

“What?” he responds, placing his book on his lap and raising his hands up defensively. “You asked.”

“I asked if you were getting along. You’re not giving him a hard time, are you?” Dick tells him, sternly and as if _he_ was in the wrong here. Apparently, joking was now a federal crime. 

“ _I’m_ not giving anyone a hard time. Kid’s the goddamn devil. Can’t be too surprised, knowing his mother.”

Hilariously enough, however, Dick opens his mouth as to retort, closes it, and then reopens it again, all with the same dumb and frustrated expression on his face. It was hard to refute Talia’s status in Bruce’s list of decidedly weird exes. “He’s not bad. Give him a chance.”

He almost wants to quip about how that chance would most likely end in Damian trying to rip his head off with a rusty pike, but he refrains. Instead, he makes a small annoyed grunting sound (a stunning impression of Bruce Wayne, to be sure), and yanks out a coffee thermos from the side of his bag. It was stunningly colder than it was this morning, but that was kind of expected. Not even someone like Alfred (butler extraordinaire; second to no one in stuffy British butlery things) could make coffee that would magically stay perfectly warm the whole day. Coffee made by Jason himself never really stood a chance.

Curiously, Dick stares at him as he takes the first sip, peanut butter _still_ on his mouth. How annoying.

“Is that coffee?” Dick asks, popping the last of his sandwiches into his mouth and chewing, oh-so-very slowly. 

“Yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes. “If you wanted some, I’ve got bad news for you. It’s as cold and black as my charity.”

“…That wasn’t it,” Dick responds, slowly. “I just wanted to know. You can stop by apartment to heat it up next time. I live minutes away from here.”

Licking some residue that had caught on his upper lip, Jason snorts. “Aw, you _do_ care about me. I’m so flattered. Hold onto my textbook, Professor Grayson, I feel like I might start to _swoon_.”

“I always care about you, Jason,” Dick says to him, a bit _too_ quickly, and—ah. Leave it to Dick Grayson to make his attempt at a witty quip awkward, fucking Boy Scout that he is. It’s not like the care was returned, right? _Right_.

Jason stares mutely for moment, taking a sip from his distressingly cold drink, before sighing. “There’s something on your face.”

“Huh?” Dick says, so very eloquently.

“There’s something on your face. It’s right,” he repeats, nearly mumbling and leaning over to him. “Here.” And then he presses his thumb to the corner of his lips, almost too naturally, at the same time Dick gets the message and his tongue darts out to remove it.

They proceed to stare at each other awkwardly, Dick’s tongue still touching Jason’s peanut butter coated thumb, before both slowly retract their respective appendages. 

“There’s an essay due next class,” Dick coughs, trying to cover up his embarrassment as he pops the lid back on his container.

“Okay,” Jason replies, quickly, wiping the sticky sweet toping on the pavement, right next to a scribble pavement prophetically telling him to _fuck bitches_. “Okay, yeah.”

* * *

“How’s Barbara?” Jason asks, standing in Dick’s kitchen the next day, thankful to have a fan ready and aimed on him as he waits for their lunch to heat up. Dick’s apartment is a rickety little thing two blocks away from the campus, armed and equipped with one bedroom, one bathroom and one living room-cum-kitchen. The furniture is lacking, but what is _not_ lacking in the number of pictures and mementos plastered left and right. Jason feels his stomach twist somewhat (but not entirely unpleasantly) at the fact that he can spot himself in a big chunk of them. 

“Babs?” Dick responds, redundantly as he looks away from the microwave—which he was standing way too close to anyway. Alfred always scolded both of them whenever they tried to stare at it from too close, but it seemed like Dick had broken away from that now that he wasn't living in the old mansion. “She’s fine, you know. Her job’s going great. Did you miss her?” 

“Oh, save the psychoanalysis for later, Mr. Grayson,” Jason responds, making a face (because it seems to be a requirement for hanging around Dick). “I’m curious, since you two are a thing.”

A beat, and Dick presses his lips together into a thin line. “…We haven’t been a thing for a year, Jason.”

“Oh,” he says, blinking rapidly as he leans against the kitchen counter, trying and failing to look like that didn’t catch him off guard. Somehow, the knowledge that Dick was, in fact, single felt numbingly pleasant. He needed to stop sniffing coffee markers in a pinch. “Well. I never really cared about your personal life.”

“Jason, you _know_ that’s not—”

“Spare me the lecture, Dick. You might be the _golden boy_ to everyone else, but not to me. You ran away,” he says sharply, over the sound of the microwave beeping to indicate that their lunch was ready for consumption, but Dick makes no move to open it. Instead, he sighs, somewhat ruefully, and massages his temples.

“I needed a break,” he replies, his tone tired as he licks his lips, pressing them together and repeating. It was slightly distracting—even more so than the vague hand gesture he makes as he speaks again. “I needed a break from… well.” 

Bruce Wayne, he could easily guess. And as much as he understood that better than anyone, he didn’t want to sympathize. 

“Fine.” Waving him off, shoving him aside to grab open the microwave and then subsequently having his arm grabbed and his body yanked as a result. He stares at Dick, whose face seems to have contorted into some weird expression he hadn’t really seen before, and furrows his brows. “What the hell, Dick?”

Dick breathes in, rather audibly, and then exhales. His grip seems to have shifted from Jason’s arm to Jason’s _waist_ in the meantime, and the next thing he knows, he’s being hugged by one severely sad and overwhelmingly clingy Grayson. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles into his shoulder, body pressed against Jason’s in a way that heavily resembles a child that has been scolded by their favorite person. “I should have been there for you.”

“Oh, no. No, no, no,” Jason says, words rushed as he pries Dick off him, stomach churning unpleasantly. “We are not fucking making this about me, do you hear me? You are _not_ making this about me.”

“Jason—” Dick tries to say, heaving a heavy sigh and just _looking_ at him, but he’s cut off.

“Fuck you,” he snaps, jabbing the release button on the microwave and watching it pop open with a satisfying sound. He expected Dick to do _something_ , but he didn’t really expect him to yank him down and kiss him—an act he didn’t quite refuse to return.

But that was alright, he supposed. Their lunch would have to wait for later, once the complete destruction of Dick’s personal property was done and over with and they had both missed one full period of class. 

* * *

The next day, he turns his essay in. It’s a five thousand word epic explaining the dangers of seducing your younger brothers. The next time he sees it, it’s used to clean up Dick’s desk once they’re done with it.

He still gets an A. 


End file.
